


Sherlock Learns How To Play Strip Poker (and loses badly)

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [33]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, First Time, I swear this isn't ENTIRELY crack, M/M, Strip Games, Strip Poker, there's smut too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has deleted the rules to poker, so he demands John teach him. Strip poker, because why not. And blindfolded, because John refuses to play without Sherlock having a handicap to counteract his giant brain. The fact that John can now ogle Sherlock's increasingly-nude body is just a bonus, of course.</p><p>(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Naked Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/948342) by [naughtyspirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit). 



> So full confession, I was re-reading "The Naked Truth" by naughtyspirit (http://archiveofourown.org/works/948342) which involves strip chess, strip Twister, strip Kerplunk, and all sorts of other fun things John and Sherlock could get up to, and I totally was like "I want to read this again but with poker." And then realized if I wanted that, I'd have to write it myself. So thank you, naughtyspirit, for your excellent inspiration :-)

A year of living with Sherlock had honed John’s reflexes to a near-superhuman level. It was therefore not at all surprising that John caught the deck of cards Sherlock lobbed at his head before he’d even really consciously realized he’d just awoken from a nap on the sofa.

“John, I need you to teach me how to play poker.”

John levered himself up to sitting and scratched his chest with a yawn. “You assume I play,” he mumbled, blinking against the slanted afternoon light coming in the window. “What brought this on? Case?”

Sherlock plonked down in his armchair, pouting at the ceiling with limbs all awry, and sighed dramatically. “I deleted it, apparently.”

“You . . . right.” John tossed the deck onto the coffee table and scrubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes. “You deleted poker, or you deleted the reason you want to learn it?”

“Deleted all card games.” Sherlock rolled his head along the back of the chair to look at John, as if actually holding it up like a normal person was too much effort. “Poker in particular. It’s been brought to my attention that I may be missing valuable data.” He huffed. “You must know how poker is played - you’re a gambling addict.”

 _Bloody . . ._ John crossed his arms. “I _had_ a gambling problem at one time, yes. But I haven’t wagered for years. And it wasn’t poker. Last time I played poker, I think it was strip poker back in uni.”

“So teach me that.”

John blinked. “Sherlock, do you even know what strip poker is?”

Sherlock smiled. It was his I’m-going-to-get-my-way-so-why-are-you-arguing smile. The most annoying one. “No, which is why you need to teach me.”

“It involves getting naked. Together.”

Sherlock shrugged, an impressive feat considering his current boneless-sprawl state. “I’m not shy.”

“Figured that out, ta.” It’s not that Sherlock wandered around starkers _all_ the time, but John got an eyeful of blindingly pale pectorals whenever Sherlock decided he couldn’t be bothered to put a shirt on under his robe. Which was on a pretty regular basis. Sherlock had a threadbare grey t-shirt on now, thankfully, but even the clash of the grey shirt, the olive-and-tan-striped pajama trousers, and the navy blue robe wasn’t enough to counteract his natural grace. And confidence. “Maybe I am,” John added.

“You’re not.”

There wasn’t really any point in arguing - Sherlock would poke holes in the lie immediately - so John let it go. “It wouldn’t be a fair contest,” he said instead.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I assure you, John, I’ll pick up the rules quickly-”

“Not that.” God, how could the man be so dense? “It’s a game about reading people, you berk. I’m going to end up in my underpants before you’ve even taken off one sock.”

Sherlock blinked, then sat up straight. “Explain.”

“Poker is . . .” John thought for a moment about how to say it. “Well, there are different versions, but all of them boil down to math and bluffing. You get your hand, you have a higher or lower chance of it being the best hand at the table, and then you bet against everyone else and the winner keeps the pot. You win at poker by convincing your opponents you have better cards, not by luck. And since you’re better than I am at lying, reading body language, and calculating probabilities on the fly, I’d lose.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “Explain the part about your underpants.”

God, this whole conversation was a terrible idea. Too late to cut and run, though. “The point of strip poker,” John said in as disaffected a voice as possible, “is to make the other person have to strip. Instead of wagering for money, you wager for items of clothing. The more you lose, the more you have to take off. Generally the game ends with everyone drunk, some sort of sexual activity, or both. It’s not the kind of thing I’d invite Mrs. Hudson up for.”

“Oh, she knows how to play,” Sherlock said with a graceful wave of his wrist. “She’s the one who mentioned poker with her late husband and his friends. Alerted me to the fact I was missing potentially valuable knowledge. She didn’t call it strip poker, but it was heavily implied.”

“Jesus.” _That_ was going to take some rather strong brain bleach to get out. John frantically tried to think of another excuse. “You’re barely dressed.” It was the only one he could come up with.

Sherlock glanced down at his pajamas, then shrugged. “Call it a handicap.”

 _Christ._ “I don’t want you squirreling an image of me naked away in your mind palace somewhere.”

“So I’ll play blindfolded.” Sherlock leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees, and grinned. “Would that be more fair? Me with four pieces of clothing to your eight, blindfolded so I can’t see you and can’t read your non-verbal cues, and a novice at the game? I’ll even promise to publicly acknowledge that you beat me at poker, if you want to brag to Lestrade afterward. If you win, of course.”

“Of course.” John sighed, but his mind was already racing ahead. This wasn’t the worst way Sherlock had ever proposed to spend a lazy afternoon, by far. It was non-destructive, didn’t involve rotting body parts in the crisper, and might actually allow him the chance to ogle Sherlock’s chest without feeling like Sherlock was going to catch him out and deduce him. John wasn’t as sure of his absolute straightness as he had been when he moved in to 221B, but that didn’t mean he wanted Sherlock noticing and analyzing anything.

“If you promise to never ever ever mention it was strip poker,” he finally said, “ _and_ you promise not to cheat, then we can try it.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock practically leapt out of his seat, grabbed his blue scarf off the hook near the door, and presented it to John. “I trust this would be an adequate blindfold?”

John held it up over his own eyes and squinted through it. The fabric was surprisingly thin for being so warm and sturdy. If he focused, he could make out a Sherlock-shaped object in front of him, but there’s no way Sherlock would be able to read the cards. Or John’s face. “You look at your hand first,” he declared. “Before I see mine. Then no peeking after that.”

The Sherlock-shaped blob inclined his head. “I have an excellent memory. That’s acceptable.”

“Right. Drag your chair over here, then.” John sucked in a deep breath and let it out in one long exhale. _I’m seriously screwed._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, my "Imma update something every week" kinda disappeared recently, but I hope this chapter helps :-)

John shuffled the deck and tried his best to remember what putting on a poker face was supposed to feel like. It wasn’t often Sherlock actually _admitted_ to not knowing something, so it was nice to at least theoretically be the expert for once. Letting even a hint of perceived superiority show in his expression would be equivalent to handing over any small advantage he did have, though, so he kept his head down and focused on the cards.

Sherlock positioned his armchair across the coffee table from John, then slumped back and fidgeted until John finished shuffling the cards into submission. “Rules?”

“Umm . . . five-card draw would be easiest, I think. Here.” John grabbed his laptop from the floor near his feet and did a quick internet search for a list of poker hand rankings. “This is all the possible winning hands, in order from best to worst. Higher numbered hand wins if there’s a tie. Four queens beats four sixes, for example, but three twos beats two aces. We each get five cards, discard and replace up to three, then bet on which of us has the better hand.” He passed the laptop to Sherlock. “Guess you’re going to have to memorize them. Seeing as you’ll be blindfolded.”

Sherlock inclined his head, his eyes already skimming over the web page. “Bets are with clothing instead of money, I take it?”

“. . . Yeah.” John shuffled one last time, then passed the deck to Sherlock. “You want to cut?”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

 _Right._ Deleted that too, probably. John cut the cards himself, then dealt five out to both of them. “Take a look, discard what you don’t want, and re-draw. I’m not touching mine until I know you can’t see me.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked upward, but he dutifully picked up his hand. And barely glanced at it before tossing two cards down and drawing two more. _Bloody hell,_ really _glad he’s giving me the advantage here._ “That’s it, then?” Sherlock said.

“Blindfold.”

“Of course.” Sherlock held up the scarf. “I assume you’d like to tie it yourself?”

“To make sure you’re not cheating? Ta, you know me so well.” John wiped his suddenly-clammy hands on his trousers and came around to stand behind Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock passed the scarf back to him and bent his neck forward so John could tie a knot more easily. “This too tight?”

Sherlock twitched his head side to side within the confines of John’s hands as John tightened the scarf. “It’s fine.” 

“Can you see?”

“I . . .” Sherlock twisted around, holding his body very still as he analyzed his new handicap. “Your outline, perhaps, but only because you’re backlit by the window. Hurry up and pick your cards; I want to play.”

John quickly returned to the sofa and drew five cards. Two queens, two jacks, and a seven. He tossed the seven back. “Drawing one.” _Right, then._ He looked down at his outfit. “I’ll start with my right shoe, I guess.”

Sherlock gave a derisive little snort. “That’s all?”

John eyed Sherlock’s lithe form as he slouched in the seat of his armchair. The hem of his pajamas rode up a bit from how he was curled into the seat, displaying a dusting of dark curls on his lower shins. “You were the one who suggested the handicap,” John pointed out.

Even through the scarf-slash-blindfold, John could sense Sherlock rolling his eyes. “Fine, then. I’ll wager the sash to my robe.”

His robe wasn’t particularly belted to start with, but John objected on principle. Specifically, on the principle that the sash was _part_ of the robe. “Not actually a clothing item.”

“Neither is your shoe.”

John glanced at his cards again. Not the most impressive starting hand, but not terrible. “I’ll call.”

Sherlock frowned.

“It means show me what you’ve got, nitwit. Mine’s two pair, queens high.”

“Oh.” The brilliant, incredible “world’s only consulting detective” tossed his hand onto the table, still face-down. “Mine are all red.”

“Sherlock, for . . .” John flipped them over. “Have to be all the same suit for a flush, you nitwit. This is ten high.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock shrugged, then sat up straight so he could remove the belt of his robe and drop it on the floor next to him. The robe parted entirely when he slumped back into the armchair, framing his chest perfectly through the worn fabric of his shirt. “Another?”

“You need another look at the list of winning hands?”

Sherlock waved him off, so he dealt again. Sherlock re-drew three cards. John got a straight 5-6-7-8-9 right off the bat. “None for me,” he announced casually. Like Sherlock wouldn’t pick up everything he needed to know just from his voice anyway. “Your bet first this time.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “Interesting,” he breathed. “In that case . . . my robe, I think. In exchange for your socks _and_ your shoes.”

John looked down at his feet. “Not really your place to determine what I’ll wager, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “But you won’t be willing to wager your trousers until both your socks and your shoes are off. You _hate_ wearing socks without trousers.”

“Not going to ask how the hell you deduced that.”

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve noticed that-”

“I said I’m _not going to ask,_ you berk. Fine.” Sherlock probably had a shit hand again anyway. “Another all-red for you this time?”

“You first.”

“Straight, nine high.” John tossed them down on the table with a little flourish. “Hence no re-draw. You?”

Sherlock tugged up his blindfold until it was pulled tight across his forehead, pinning his curls in place like a headband. He looked at John, the cards . . . and then threw down a full house. “Go on, then.” He sank back into his chair, arms akimbo, and raised one eyebrow. “I promise I’m not a foot fetishist.”

“For fuck’s sake.” A foot fetish hadn’t particularly been on John’s radar, but he sure as hell could picture it now. Sherlock, wearing that sodding scarf as a blindfold, kneeling at his feet. John peeled off the shoes and socks with a minimum of grace and kicked them under the table. “You won’t be able to see them in a minute anyway. Draw your damn cards and get your blindfold back on.”

Sherlock drew his own, replaced one, and tugged the blindfold back down. “You do have nice feet, though,” he added.

“Sod off.” John drew a pair of aces and managed to upgrade it to three of a kind. “Trading in three. And this round, I think I’ll wager my jumper.”

Sherlock licked his lips. Slowly. “Against my robe?” he asked.

It’s not like Sherlock had all that many other choices. “I’ll accept that. Three aces.”

“Three eights. Bugger.” Sherlock threw his cards down on the table and stood to shrug the robe off. “And I’ll have you know I never used to swear before we moved in together.”

“I never used to hold tupperware up to the light before opening it on the off-chance it was full of bird spleens before I moved in, either. Times change.”

“Those were rattlesnake spleens.”

 _“Not. Helping.”_ John determinedly kept from looking until Sherlock had drawn his next hand and settled the blindfold back on again. His biceps really were impressively defined for a man who weighed maybe eleven stone soaking wet and spent most of his at-the-flat time using as few structural muscles as possible. Odd how rarely John actually saw him in a short-sleeved shirt, considering how often Sherlock went about half-dressed.

John’s jumper went next, but Sherlock’s t-shirt followed. John actually won the next hand on a pair of kings, leaving himself in his button-down and trousers and Sherlock stripping off his horrid olive-and-tan-striped pajama bottoms with absolutely no signs of modesty whatsoever. Despite John’s best efforts to pretend this wasn’t doing a damn thing for him, he could feel himself turn pink when Sherlock wriggled his hips to get the pajamas off and revealed a gorgeous, silky pair of royal purple boxers. Which weren’t quite tight enough to _actually_ show off the shape of Sherlock’s cock underneath them, but John had a very, very good imagination. He cleared his throat and quickly dealt them both more cards.

“Your button-down versus my pants, obviously.” Sherlock didn’t even glance at his hand. Or pull the blindfold back on. “I’ll keep these five.”

“You’re not going to even-”

“I want to watch you.”

 _Christ._ John didn’t even know how to _begin_ to respond to that. He quickly drew himself a flush in clubs. “You’re that eager to lose?”

Sherlock said nothing, but flipped over the cards in front of him. Pair of twos. He kept his eyes on John’s face the entire time. John took a deep breath, then dropped his flush on the table. Met Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock stood, still silent, and slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers. Eased them down. This time, when the smooth head of his _very erect_ cock popped free, John didn’t bother trying to hide his fascination. Sherlock slid the boxers down his long legs, stepped out of them, and sank down to a kneeling position on the carpet.

“Another round?” he asked softly.

“You’re . . .” John had to swallow twice before he could get anything more out. “You seem to have run out of clothing to wager.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock shuffled forward on his knees, close enough he could lean his elbows on the coffee table. “Clothing, yes. That’s not all I can offer, though.”

 _Holy fuck._ John was glad he was already sitting, because otherwise he’d probably have fallen over. “I, ah.” He glanced down at the cards, then up at Sherlock’s very naked chest. And impish smirk.

“Last round,” Sherlock murmured. “If I win, I get to open your flies, right here, and taste you. And if you win . . .” He reached under the table, patted around for a bit. And came up with a condom and lube.

All John’s breath escaped in a rush. “You prepared.”

“A bit.” Sherlock levered himself up - displaying a significant amount of his barely-furred chest above the edge of the coffee table in the process - and reached around behind himself. “I - _nnng_ \- thought it best to be proactive.” He wriggled his hips a bit, hand still somewhere in the vicinity of his arse, and exhaled slowly as he withdrew a squat black plug. “Figured once we got to this point, it was good to be ready for anything.”

John couldn’t verbalize anything more than a strangled grunt.

“So . . . another hand?” Sherlock casually planted the plug flare-side-down on the coffee table next to the deck. As if this were a totally normal thing to do, to offer. “You can keep me blindfolded, if you like. I don’t need to see to appreciate.”

 _Fuck._ “Sherlock” and “subtle” were in totally different hemispheres at the moment, but John couldn’t find it in himself to care. He shuffled the cards and dealt in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock did actually pick up his cards this time, but he put them down again without exchanging any. He settled back on his heels in silence, tugging the blindfold into place, and kept his face turned toward John even though there was no way he could see more than perhaps a vague suggestion of motion. John knew he ought to look at his own hand, at least go through the motions, but he’d have been hard-pressed to remember which side was the front and which was the back at the moment. Poker hands rather paled in comparison with a blindfolded, naked Sherlock.

“John?”

“I, um.” John shoved his hand away. “I fold.”

“Excellent. Me too.” Sherlock licked his lips. “Does that mean it’s a draw, then?”

 _Oh god._ “It’s . . . it’s whatever you want.” John’s pulse pounded strangely loud in his ears. “Surprised you remembered what a draw is, honestly.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock swept the cards away with one elegant motion. Table clear, he leaned forward on his elbows, grinned lasciviously . . . and then actually tried to crawl over the table, with significantly less grace. It was an awkward flop in slow motion - blindly reaching for the floor with one hand, misjudging the distance, and then long limbs everywhere as he nearly chinned himself on the tabletop. Only John’s quick reflexes saved him from a nasty bruise. Sherlock scowled and shook his head. The expression on his face looked exactly like when a cat misjudges a jump and hopes nobody saw. “That wasn’t at all what I’d planned,” he whined.

John had to literally bite his tongue to keep from giggling out loud. “It was fine, Sherlock. Dignified as - _ahem!_ \- dignified as always.” The sudden break in the tension gave him the courage to reach out and place a hand on Sherlock’s bare shoulder, helping Sherlock regain his sense of direction. “You could have just walked around, you know.”

“That seemed more seductive in my head.” Sherlock shouldered the table out of the way and tugged at John’s calves, guiding him to sit on the very edge of the sofa cushion, and just like that John’s laughter was _gone_. Sherlock was very warm and very large in front of him, shoulders between John’s knees, and only the fabric of John’s jeans and Y-fronts kept him from possibly poking Sherlock in the eye with his very interested cock. Just as well Sherlock couldn’t see.

John cleared his throat. And then had to clear it again, because somehow having Sherlock kneeling between his legs was seriously throwing off his sense of normal. “You’re naked,” he said lamely.

“Not quite.” Sherlock slid warm palms up the inside of John’s thighs, scalding him through the denim. “I’m still wearing my scarf, you might notice.”

“I, ah. I did.”

“I rather like it, actually.” Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his face against the softer-than-John-would-like skin of John’s stomach. The brush of the scarf whispered like a kiss and left goosepimples in its wake. “Lets me focus on how you feel. Smell.” His tongue darted out to wet a small patch of skin on John’s abdomen. “Taste.”

_“Fuck.”_

“Eventually.” Sherlock slid his palms around to John’s hips. “If you’re amenable. First, though - may I?”

No way in hell John was going to say no, so he exhaled hard and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa to give Sherlock more space and tried to focus on not coming the moment Sherlock touched his flies. Sherlock, for his part, seemed determined to draw it out as long as possible - he breathed and tasted and _sampled_ just above John’s waistband an impossibly long time more before finally popping the button loose from its mooring and teasing the zip open. John’s erection immediately surged forward, tenting his pants in a way that left absolutely no doubt how much he was appreciating the attention.

“You don’t even know,” Sherlock murmured. “I want to bottle this up. _Essence of John._ The taste of your skin and the smell of anticipation and the way you tense your abdominal muscles when I breathe on you. The texture of your pants after you’ve been wearing them all day and they’ve absorbed your sweat and your pre-come and your skin cells. I don’t need to see you - I’ve got everything I need right here.”

John rested a tentative hand in Sherlock’s hair. His brain was having serious trouble transmitting any actual thoughts with Sherlock’s mouth that close to his cock, but even through the haze of _bloody hell this is actually happening_ he vaguely recognized that this didn’t sound like run-of-the-mill dirty talk. Sounded rather like Sherlock had been thinking about this a lot, actually. Which was absolutely, totally fine.

Sherlock used his tongue and one gentle fingertip to nudge John’s cock out from the flap of his Y-fronts and into sight. Well, into John’s sight. Sherlock was presumably operating entirely on feel and smell. The blindfold didn’t seem to be hindering him much - he nosed around until he had his lips poised over the crown of John’s cock, then hummed happily and closed the gap.

_“Fuck.”_

Sherlock gave an all-over wiggle, which John immediately recognized as his smug I-just-did-something-brilliant expression re-imagined as body language while his lips were otherwise occupied. John was beyond objecting, though - the most he was capable of at the moment was digging his heels into the floor and arching his back further into the sofa and trying not to keel over with the sensation of _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ sucking his cock. Not just sucking. Fellating. Playing with. Wanking and teasing and exploring and cherishing and all the other things John loved about Sherlock’s sense of endless curiosity, distilled down to a few hundred square centimeters of nerve endings and one bloody talented mouth.

John let Sherlock go for as long as he could stand it, but eventually he tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock pulled off with a low whimper. From John’s vantage point looking down between their bodies, he could see a perfect head-on view of Sherlock petting his own cock slowly while he got his breath back. Sherlock leaned back against the table a bit, the better for John to watch, but didn’t speed up his gentle strokes.

“Want to come inside me?” he murmured. “I can’t see your expression, so I’m having to guess.”

That brought a little breathless laugh to John’s throat. “You never guess. Come on, deduce it.”

Sherlock frowned, his forehead wrinkling slightly. “You’re encouraging me, so I can’t have done too badly. You’re not dragging me into your lap, though, so . . . embarrassment? Uncomfortable with anal sex? Or - oh. First time with a male partner.”

“That is _so much_ a guess. And also wrong.” John slid his hand through Sherlock’s hair, unable to resist the feel of the curls tickling his fingers, and cupped the back of Sherlock’s head. “I may be ninety-ten biased toward female partners, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never done this before. And in my expert opinion, you were doing brilliantly.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Sherlock full-body shuddered and pressed his skull into John’s hand. “So that’s a yes?”

Ooh, if that’s how he wanted it . . . John grabbed the lube and the condom off the table, leaning over Sherlock to do so, then sat back and got the condom on as quick as was humanly possible before his fingers got too slippery to rip the packet open. Because damn it, this was a chance to take charge, and he bloody well wasn’t going to pass it by. “You’ve got the blindfold on, as you pointed out,” John murmured, “so shall I describe what you’d see? You’ve gathered a wealth of data already, I’m sure. Because you’re _you_ and I don’t think the rapture itself could keep you from analyzing everything even while parts of your brain are . . . otherwise occupied.” He slipped his toes behind Sherlock’s thigh and prodded. “Get up here, you berk.”

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and then to straddling John’s lap, his arms demurely at his sides. He didn’t even object to the insult, which John took as high praise indeed.

“So you want to know what we look like. Hmmm.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and settled him more comfortably, both of their cocks touching air but with Sherlock’s sternum within kissing range. “Going to have to put myself in your head for this, you realize. Heaven knows it’ll be a bit roomy for me.”

Sherlock emitted a high-pitched sound that John was absolutely, positively 100% sure he’d later deny was actually a whine. “John-”

“Shush. I’m painting a picture here.” John shifted his grip to encompass the mouthwatering globes of Sherlock’s arse. “You know how I taste already, but I bet if you could see me, you’d comment on my eyes being dilated sixty percent more than normal or some nonsense like that. Flush on my skin covering seventy-two percent of my body. Or possibly -” - he leaned forward and ran one long lick up Sherlock’s pale sternum - “-possibly you’d notice that I’ve got this ridiculously massive hard-on for you. Because you’re so amazingly beautiful like this, Sherlock. Enough that I might possibly even forgive you for tricking me into believing that you didn’t know how to play poker.”

Sherlock bristled at that. “John, I-”

“Nope.” John started rubbing, soothing little circles which started encroaching on Sherlock’s arse crack. It shut Sherlock up rather brilliantly. “I was going to drag this out for a while, give myself a minute to calm back down, but somehow I get the impression you’d prefer I just get on with it. Slick up a finger or two and play with that poor arsehole you’ve been abusing all evening. Should I start with one, do you think? Or go straight for the quickest possible route to you riding my dick?”

 _“Nngh.”_ Sherlock grappled blindly, his hands eventually settling on John’s biceps. “Don’t need it, just need your erection inside me. _Please._ ”

John rolled his eyes - not like Sherlock could see to call him on it - and leaned forward to deliver a mostly-gentle nip to Sherlock’s chest. “Not optional, you twit. But I will go as fast as you’re comfortable with.” He withdrew his hands long enough to get the lube open and a healthy dollop on his forefingers, then slipped a hand between Sherlock’s legs (grazing his own cock in the process, _fuck_ ) and working two fingertips in with minimal fuss. The plug had done its job: Sherlock’s hole was impressively open, swallowing John’s fingers with barely any resistance. John twisted them a bit, scissored them apart, teased the sensitive lining inside Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock threw his head back and keened. His cock was vivid and straining and practically dripping on John’s below it and it was _glorious._ John curled his fingers one final time inside Sherlock before his own dick couldn’t wait any longer.

“Now?” Sherlock panted.

“Now.” John guided him down, one hand on the base of his own cock and one on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock moaned aloud and squirmed his way down until he was planted firmly in John’s lap and they both needed a moment to adjust.

“Good?”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock dipped his head, pressing his forehead to John’s hair. “I just - I can’t believe - there’s no way I - _nngh_.”

“Take your time.” John added another dollop of lube to his palm, then closed his hand casually around Sherlock’s cock. And _holy fuck I am actually_ inside _Sherlock._ Part of John’s mind kept running on autopilot while another, much larger part was busy running around in circles and gibbering. _My dick is inside Sherlock and I’m wanking him and he’s_ naked _and holy mother of god does he look gorgeous like this._ Just as well Sherlock couldn’t see - John was far past the point of guarding his expression from the world’s most perceptive consulting detective. “In fact,” he added aloud, “I’m just gonna sit here like this and let you do the work.” He squeezed his hand slightly and slid it downward, slicking up the rest of Sherlock’s shaft. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Sherlock took a minute to get into a rhythm - hands clenching the back of the sofa, long legs bracketing John’s, head thrown back and mouth open and pale throat exposed and _fuck if only I were taller_ \- but John really wasn’t in a position to complain. Was barely holding on as it was. When Sherlock sped up in that familiar stutter-step “Ah! Ah! Ah!” pattern, John had absolutely no trouble following him over the edge a few thrusts later.

***

They fell asleep like that, much to Sherlock’s total embarrassment later. John woke to a lapful of snoring flatmate, a cramp in his lower back to rival the pain of sleeping on an army bunk, and the glow of streetlights outside having replaced the slanted afternoon sunlight. He’d gotten as far as pulling out and tying off the condom, but they were both still nude and sticky and probably going to be getting cold in the very near future since Sherlock removed the afghan from the back of the sofa again.

All in all, it was an entirely satisfactory poker game.


End file.
